


What Dreams May Come

by LotusFlair



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: 14 Labors of Jonathan Sims, Alternate Universe - Future, Angst, Apocalypse Roadtrip, Blood and Injury, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scottish Honeymoon, safehouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LotusFlair/pseuds/LotusFlair
Summary: Working through my dreams and nightmares by putting Jon and Martin through them as well. Chapters will be added as needed, though some may be inspired from recurring dreams.Dreams Include:Chapt. 1 - Submarines, mild claustrophobia, blood, monstersChapt. 2 - Hospitals and injuriesChapt. 3 - Children and helplessness
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Kudos: 31





	1. Beneath the Depths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin finds himself a passenger on a strange vessel with only a light to guide him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can find me on Twitter @darling_sammy and check out my website, POP Archives @ pop-archives.com

The klaxons sound, the lights flickered. The echoes of hundreds of boots landing on metal followed him as he tried to orient himself. They'd been walking, hadn't they? Jon was just ahead of him, his determined stride going straight towards the distant tower of the Panopticon. Then he heard something splashing in the water, something that shouldn't have been there. A light was peeking through and then the alarms began. Where was he? Where was Jon?

"Get off your ass and move, sailor!" a voice shouted in his face. There were no distinctive features, just the outline of where a face should be. His voice was indescribable beyond it's harsh and heavy tone. When he didn't move fast enough, the officer gripped his shirt, pulling him to his feet. Then he was up against the metal wall and it suddenly occurred to him how closed in the space was - barely enough room for two people to walk past each other if they were traveling in opposite directions. The humid air smelled stale, almost rancid with body odor. Was he on a submarine? How did he get on a submarine?

"I'm - I'm sorry! I don't - I don't know where I am!" Martin cried. "I was with - with my partner. Have you seen him?"

He felt the sickening heat of the officer's ill-defined face by his ear. "If you won't be useful, then stay out of the way!"

"I don't know what's happening! What is going on?" Martin shouted. He turned as if to confront the man, but there was no one behind him. All he heard were klaxons and the echo of boots on metal.

Deciding that there were no answers in this cramped segment of the vessel, he chose a direction and followed it to its end point. There was a ladder, so he climbed it. He followed the corridor again. There was a set of stairs leading to a lower-tiered section, so he went down again. Over and over this occurred. Each level offered the same experience: the promise of finding another person to talk to, the disappointment of another empty place, and the constant flickering of lights against the cold metal of the surrounding walls, ceiling and floor. Still the alarms blared, the people shouted, and the boots clanged from above and below. The sound of his own boots pounding against the floor mixed and melded with the others until he found it difficult to discern if he was running away, towards, or in step with their haunting gait. He lost count of how many ladders and stairs he ascended and descended, but he knew in the back of his mind that it was far too many to fit into a submarine. Had he somehow wandered into one of the Spiral's mazes?

He needed to focus on something other than chasing the ghosts. No matter how hard he tried, they'd always be just out of reach. He came to a stop in the corridor.

"Okay, Martin, new plan," he said. "Either find Jon or find a way out. Whichever comes first."

He took another step and heard the slosh of something wet. Looking down, he saw the rippling mirror of water reflecting the lights from above.

"We're taking on water," he said, quietly. "I'm in a submarine that's taking on water..."

He ran without thinking. Whatever direction was probably the wrong one, but he didn't care. He had to find something or someone to make sense of what was happening. What started as barely an inch of water became six inches in a matter of seconds. There were no more echoes of boots on metal, just a dull thumping as the water impeded movement. He felt it dripping down from the ceiling, falling into his shirt collar and dripping down his neck and back. Gauges and pipes began to burst, spraying even more of the ocean in his way.

There was a sealed door up ahead. He rotated the wheel and pushed his way through. Water poured in, but he was strong enough to seal the door shut again before too much came through. He wiped at his eyes, trying desperately to get rid of the salt that stung them. He wasn't sure if the culprit was the murky brine or his own tears, but he sure as hell didn't have time to figure it out. The area he found himself in was something like an observation deck, but that wasn't right, was it?

Instead of the cramped corridor, he was in a spacious room complete with upholstered furniture and a fully stocked bar. The main feature, of course, was the giant glass window stretching the length of the room. Beyond it, the ocean - vast and terrifying in its enormity. He remembered Simon Fairchild's statement about his failed ritual below the waves. Was this his doing? Had they wandered into Vast-related territory?

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" Martin said.

" _You need to wake up_ ," said a familiar voice.

Jon was standing by the giant window, a look of surprise on his face as he realized where he was. Martin rushed over, ready to gather Jon into his arms, but there was nothing to hold on to, nothing to anchor him in his fear. With saddened eyes, Jon tried to reach out as well. His arm stopped halfway as his body tensed, a look of pained concentration on his face. Martin understood why when Jon appeared to flicker in and out of existence in time with the lights.

"Jon...I don't - what's happening? Where are you? Where am I?" Martin asked, his voice laced with panic.

" _Martin...you haaaaAAA...you havVVVe to-to...WWWWWakKKeE upPPPP_!" Jon said, his voice equally as panicked. The words were distorted, cutting in and out like the signal was struggling to keep hold. The pain and frustration was clear in his eyes as he made another attempt to connect. There was a moment where Martin thought he felt their hands brush, but it was fleeting as Jon's hand fell through. " _I can't...I can't...I can't - w-w-wake y-you_!

"I didn't know I was asleep. How am I supposed to wake up?" Martin asked.

" _M-M-MAR - MARTINnnnnn! WAaaaaaaaKkkkkeee UUUUpppppp_!" Jon shouted.

There was a high-pitched whine piercing his ears. Martin instinctively flinched and looked away, his mind reeling from the spike of pain and static. In his peripheral vision he caught sight of movement beyond the glass window. There was a spot of light in the distance, but it was getting closer. There was something familiar about it, like he'd witnessed its presence before. As the light approached, he felt the gentlest press of fingers into his shoulders.

"Jon...the light...I saw - I saw --"

The gentle press turned painful as every nerve in his arms screamed in agony. The light that had only been off in the distance was now shining brightly in his eyes. Behind the light was the drooling maw of a creature he couldn't quite call an angler fish and he couldn't quite call an eel. All he knew was it's scaled head, jagged teeth, and clouded eyes sat atop what had once been Jon's flickering body. It was now very real and very solid as it's fingers turned claws dug into his arms, drawing blood and ripping through his flesh. The jaw came down as well, biting into his neck before he could register what was happening. Warm blood gushed from the wound, dripping down his neck and soaking his shirt.

He kicked out, his foot landing in the fish-man's stomach. The teeth were wrenched out of his neck as its body fell back. Martin stumbled away, hand pressed into the oozing wound where his neck and shoulder met. He could already feel the pull of unconsciousness, the thrumming of his heartbeat louder than the klaxons. He heard the snarling, wet growl of the creature before he felt its body slam into him.

He was on the floor, his hands slick with his own blood and he could feel his vision fading. He had to wake up. Jon couldn't do it for him. He'd said as much when they were in the cabin. If he was asleep, then the only person who could save him was himself. But how? He didn't understand how he'd gotten here in the first place. It was just the water, then the light and...

The light! It must have called him into this nightmare. There was nothing else he could reason that would break him out of the creature's hold. He felt the claws rake across his back as he turned to face what was likely to be his death if he didn't escape. His eyes felt heavy, he could smell copper and salt mixing in the air. His mind was filled with the thudding of his veins and the echoes of boots against the wailing klaxon. The light seared his vision, but it was as much a guide as it had been before. With the last vestige of consciousness, Martin grabbed hold of the appendage connecting the light to the creature's head. He felt himself slipping away, felt the creature pushing in for the killing blow as he smashed the light into the floor.

He vaulted forward on the momentum of his scream, slamming right into Jon's open arms that closed around him as his cries warped into heavy sobs of fear and relief. Jon held him tighter, whispering all kinds of nonsense in his ears. It didn't have to mean anything, Martin was just glad to hear his voice and know he was real.

Or was he?

Martin gripped Jon's arms. He pulled back, staring into his tear-filled eyes that practically glowed in the perpetual twilight of the world.

"...Are you real?" Martin asked, his voice wavering.

Jon framed his face with hesitant hands. The kiss was delicate, reserved, but Martin melted into it immediately as he felt the gravity of Jon's love wrap around him like a blanket. When they finally came up for air, Jon refused to create any distance between them then was necessary, resting their foreheads together in compromise.

"You were standing by the water...I looked away for a second and - and I heard the splash," Jon explained. "I pulled you out, but you were unconscious. I couldn't - I couldn't wake you up. I tried so hard, Martin, but...I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't..."

"It's alright, love," Martin said. "It's already starting to fade away."

"Not for me," Jon whispered. Martin's heart sank into his stomach at the reminder. "I can see it. Clear as daylight. I can smell the blood and brine. I can hear the klaxons. I can feel the water dripping from the creature's teeth. I felt it--"

"Hey, hey, Jon - Jon, it's okay. It's okay," Martin soothed. He pressed another kiss to Jon's lips, passing the stability he'd lent back into him. Dwelling would get them nowhere and they had so far to go before they reached their destination. "Help me up?"

"Yeah," Jon said. With surprising strength, Jon pulled Martin to his feet. His grip on Martin's hand was non-negotiable. Once he was standing upright, it was painfully clear how soggy his clothes were as his shirt and pants clung to his skin.

"It's going to take ages to dry," Martin complained. It was worth it, though, to hear Jon's resonant chuckle. He brought Martin's hand to his lips, lightly kissing the knuckles after a sympathetic pat.

"Maybe the walk will dry them out faster," he offered.

"Says the man in moderately dry clothes," Martin mumbled.

"Come on," Jon said, a lilt of amusement lingering in his voice. "We've still a ways to go."

They kept walking...and they kept walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nightmare this story originated from was basically the Abyss meets giant eel-thing, and I was properly freaked out when I woke up at 4am with my heart pounding in my ears. It took about half an hour to relax enough to go back to sleep, but it's been in my thoughts ever since. So thanks for that, subconscious brain!


	2. Hospitality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin's just glad he and Jon could find a nice hotel on such short notice. The only problem is the loud beeping noises that won't stop, no matter what he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Twitter @darling_sammy or check out my website, POP Archives @ pop-archives.com

The room was nicer than he could've imagined on such short notice. Planning wasn't exactly their forte, but even Martin was surprised how quickly he and Jon went from admitting their feelings for one another to going on holiday in Scotland. He tried to protest, citing what the staff at the institute would think, going on and on about how it was way too soon in their relationship to go on a trip together, but all Jon had to do was smile softly and kiss him for the fight to disappear completely. So, off to Scotland they went.

It was strange to find such a posh hotel so far out in the middle of nowhere, but every hotel had to have a gimmick these days. The rooms must have been part of it as well. The layout was slightly odd with the bed centered up against the wall, a chair on the left side and a side table on the right. There was a television as well, but it was bolted to the wall and seemed further away than was necessary. The color palette was a bit old fashioned - too much white for Martin's taste. The art was lovely, though, with water colors of birds and flowers that captured the pastoral setting quite nicely. Most of what he observed he could gloss over without a care for the whys and hows of it, but there was one problem he simply couldn't ignore.

There was a loud beeping sound that refused to go away once they arrived in the room. There was definitely a rhythm to it, not unlike a piece of machinery, and it was definitely coming from somewhere in the room, but Martin couldn't find the source no matter where he looked. Worst of all, Jon didn't seem to hear it.

"That's the fifth time you've looked under the bed," Jon said from his position on top the duvet. From the moment they set foot inside the room, Jon had flung himself onto the bed like it was first time he'd ever seem a proper mattress. Given his routine sleepovers at the archives on the world's most uncomfortable cot, it was very likely the case. Once Martin heard the beeping, he'd started sweeping the room, looking in every possible place imaginable that a machine might be hidden away. Jon was content to stay on the bed and watch.

"How can you not hear it?" Martin asked, his head popping up over the side of the bed furthest from Jon. "It's so loud and annoying and..."

"Hey, we're supposed to be on holiday, right?" Jon said. He reached out, taking Martin's hand. God, they were so cold. Why were Jon's hands so cold? He cradled Jon's hands for a quick inspection, but found there were bandages all over Jon's hands and arms.

"Jon...what happened to your arms?" Martin asked.

A look of confusion crossed his face. "Um...nothing? They're fine."

Martin looked at them again. He felt dizzy as he watched Jon's arms change abruptly from bandaged to bare to bandaged again. Now they were bloodied and aged, as if they hadn't been changed in days. And still the beeping continued.

"Jon...you-you're hurt. I need to-to call a-uh-uh nurse," Martin said. Panicking, he rushed for the door, throwing it open and looking down the hallway expectantly. There was no one, just a long corridor of bland art and even blander wallpaper. "Why is there never a nurse when I--"

"Why would there be a nurse in a hotel?" Jon asked. Martin turned and jumped back with a yelp. Jon was under the duvet propped up by all of the pillows, the bandages on his arms were pristine but more bandages were covering his neck and face. He could see the worm scars as well, vibrant and angry against his healing skin.

"I don't...I don't know what's..." He staggered, bumping into the discarded IV stand that hadn't been removed since the last shift change. The beeping sounded louder, insistent.

Jon reached out again, beckoning Martin to come closer. "You look awful, Martin. Lay down, get some rest. That's why we left London, isn't it? Get away from it all. Fresh start, right?"

Martin wanted to believe it so badly. He ignored the machines, ignored the bandages, ignored the obvious wrongness of it all and lay by Jon's side. Gently, he pressed his ear against Jon's chest and felt Jon's fingers carding through his unruly curls in a steady, comforting pattern. He let his eyes drift shut and waited for sleep to carry him away.

But all he heard was the beeping of the machines. Try as he might to press closer to Jon, there was no heartbeat present lulling him to sleep. It took him longer to realize Jon wasn't stroking his hair anymore. He opened his eyes to a darkened room and the sound of city traffic in the distance. He wasn't in the bed, he was in the chair, hand gripping Jon's cold fingers like they might instill some life in him if he willed it hard enough. Abandoning his post, Martin opened the curtains. Tears welled up as he looked over the foggy London skyline from a familiar hospital room. Turning around, the tears fully spilled over when he saw the even more familiar sight.

Jon lay still and silent in his hospital bed. All the machines were hooked up to him, but only one showed any activity. He was still dreaming, his mind somewhere Martin couldn't follow.

"No-no-no-no," Martin whispered, mournfully. "This can't - this isn't real. You came back. You came back, Jon. We escaped. You found me."

Kneeling by the bed like a child praying to a distant God, Martin took Jon's limp hand in his, pressing his face into the freezing palm.

"Please, Jon...please...tell me this isn't real," Martin begged.

He saw the fog before the cold truly hit him, rolling and coiling around him in an all too familiar embrace. He turned and there was Peter Lukas, alive and smirking from a distance.

"It's time to go, Martin," he said in his gently condescending way. "Plans are in motion that can't be undone."

Martin stood, making himself a barrier between Jon and Peter. "He's coming back. I know he is. We - I - don't need your help, so leave us alone. I'm not going anywhere with you!"

Peter smiled, soft and sad like a parent watching their child throw a tantrum. "I'm afraid you don't have a choice."

The fog closed in, heavier, thicker than it should be. It pulled and prodded, moving him against his will until his limbs moved without conscious thought, lumbering towards Peter Lukas with dull certainty. The world around him grew faint and gauzy. There was less of himself to feel as his body disappeared into the mist. He was unmoored in the Lonely, adrift without an anchor to keep him grounded. There was just fog and a mind screaming for the one person he longed for, the one person who ever stood a chance at calling him home.

"JON!"

_MARTIN!!_

Martin's eyes snapped open as his body shook. It took him a moment to realize it was Jon who was shaking him, their faces inches apart as Jon called to him. 

"Martin! Martin, can you hear me?" Jon said, frantically. Martin nodded slowly. Jon's roughly scarred hands cupped Martin's face, stroking beneath his eyes as thin streams of tears trickled out. His expression changed from panicked to compassionate in seconds as he let out a sigh of relief. "You scared me...you were so distressed. Then you shouted my name and--"

"I'm sorry," Martin said, pathetically. He noticed the streaks of moonlight through the window of their room. The smell of pastures and heather wafted on the gentle breeze. They were in Daisy's safehouse, their hideaway in Scotland. Jon was real. Jon had come back. Jon had found him in the Lonely. They'd escaped and run away until things died down at the Institute. Even with all of the knowledge coming back to him, Martin continued to sob.

"It's alright, Martin," Jon said, soothingly. "It's not unreasonable to have a nightmare considering what we've left behind...what we've experienced."

"It just felt so...real. But then it wasn't and I...it was hard to sort it out," Martin said. Instead of laying back on his side of the bed, Jon lowered himself on top of Martin, his head rest just below Martin's chin. Martin instinctively wrapped his arms around Jon, holding him in place. He took in a deep breath, the scent of amber and old books filling his senses. No matter what Jon did he always carried that fragrant combination.

Going through the motions of breathing, feeling Jon in his arms, hearing him chuckle ever so slightly, Martin slowly drifted back to sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dream that inspired this one was a weird one where I was in a hotel room that gradually turned into a hospital room. It was just odd.


	3. The Yellow Raincoat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon hears his daughter crying. He can't call out to her and no matter how fast he walks or runs towards her he can't get any closer. All he can do is watch.
> 
> Part of the 14 Labors stories, so if you're confused by what's happening I'd advise reading 14 Labors of Jonathan Sims and Nobody. Or you can just look at this chapter as an future fic AU. Whatever works for you!

He knew his daughter's cry better than he knew his own voice. It could pierce any stupor he found himself in and there was little that could get in his way once his mind was set on reaching her. She was calling to him, one of the few words that made his knees weak and his heart swell with love.

"Papa!"

She was just ahead. He could see her tiny frame in the distance of the field. A light rain began to fall and he was so glad Martin had had the foresight to put her in that bright yellow raincoat when they left the cottage. She looked scared, panicked, and her dark curls were beginning to sink as the rain fell faster. He began to call out to her, ready to instruct her to put her hood up and that he wasn't far behind.

No words left his mouth. His voice was gone and he couldn't force them out. He looked around for Martin, but there was no sign of him. Had he gone back to the cottage? Had he come out with them or was he still curled up on the sofa enjoying a cup of tea. He couldn't remember properly. There was just the present, nothing else. All that mattered in the moment was getting to Joanna and making sure she was safe.

He kept walking but he was no closer to his daughter than when he began. Still she cried, her tears indistinguishable from the hardened rain. She was getting harder to see save for the yellow raincoat pinning her location. He felt his body running, but the ground never changed. His feet sloshed in the dampened grass, the earth slowly turning to mud beneath his soiled shoes.

"Papa!" she called, her voice heavy with a fear he hadn't felt in years. It was a tidal wave of dread that swirled around his mind, calling to him like a forgotten friend. He tried, again, to call to her. He made every attempt to shout and call and scream her name just so she wouldn't think that she was alone, that she'd been abandoned. He hadn't been able to compel someone to speak for a long time, but now he longed for the ability once again. He needed to make her hear him. He needed his voice. He needed to make sure his daughter was alright.

Each step felt harder than the next as the rain hardened into hail. Joanna was in pain, he could hear her calling out. She was trying to protect herself, but she couldn't see where she was, trapped in an open field with no one to guide her home. He forced his body forward. He wailed until he should have been hoarse. He was remained stuck: far enough to see her, but never close enough to comfort her. Her cries were getting louder, the trembling notes of her sobs filling his ears. He could see the barest hint of a yellow raincoat and in the blink of an eye her form was swallowed by the unrelenting rain.

Of course it was then that his voice returned.

"Joanna!!"

"Jon! Jon - Jon, wake up. Wake up, love," Martin said. His voice broke through the barrier of the dream. The rain and field fell away and his eyes shot open. Martin barely had enough time to offer a comforting smile before Jon scrambled out of the bed. He raced down the stairs to the small bedroom that had once been Martin's writing room before they adopted Joanna. His bare feet were heavy with each step, but Jon couldn't find it in himself to care about the noise level. He needed to see his daughter.

He burst through the door and staggered back with a crushing sigh of relief at the sight of their five-year-old sleeping soundly. She was curled up with her favorite plush whale doll, named Barnaby, and her favorite blanket adorned with strawberries that was slowly falling off the bed. Both were gifts from Georgie and Melanie last Christmas. Her curls were a wild, messy halo illuminated by the moonlight and Jon felt tear stinging his eyes as memories of the dream bloomed anew.

He felt Martin's calm yet concerned presence behind him before his partner spoke.

"Jon," Martin said, quietly. He reached for Martin's hand, knowing it was there and squeezed it tightly before letting go. He needed a moment and Martin understood without saying a word. He stepped into the room and knelt by the bed, getting a better glimpse of Joanna's face as he attempted to pushed back her unkempt curls. She made so signs of waking and he was glad for it. He gently tucked the strawberry blanket more securely around her, kissed her forehead and whispered softly into her ear.

"Papa loves you, Jo-Jo. Never doubt it, my love."

Martin was waiting for him on the couch. When he'd finally shut the door and let his anxiety fall away, Jon practically collapsed into Martin's waiting arms. His tears renewed, he pressed his face into Martin's ratty night shirt to stifle his sobs. Martin held him close, rubbing his back in the familiar soothing circles he always used to calm him down. They had the comforting techniques down to a science, but Jon felt the lingering unease of the dream. It was too close to home, too much of a possibility that it hurt to think of leaving his daughter alone every again.

"You wanna tell me about it?" Martin asked. Jon backed away from the warmth of Martin's body, though his partner's arms were locked in place to keep him wrapped in safety. Their eyes met and Jon took in a deep, uncertain breath and told him about the dream.

"All I could do was watch," he said, the retelling coming to an end. "I couldn't reach her. I couldn't comfort her. She was crying, Martin, and I couldn't..."

"It's alright, Jon," Martin said. His voice was rich with sleep and a deliberate whisper as he hugged Jon close once again. "Jo-Jo's safe. She's here and she's happy and she's wonderful. Come morning, though..."

"An absolute monster," Jon finished with a low chuckle. "She gets that from you."

"How dare you!" Martin said, poking him in the side. "I'm the paragon of propriety!"

"That's the last time I get you a thesaurus," Jon joked. They both laughed and Jon felt himself relaxing into Martin's arms more and more. Anxiety gave way to exhaustion as his eyes began to droop with sleep.

"Come on, love. There's still a few hours left before the untameable terror wakes," Martin said, tuggin Jon to his feet.

Jon smiled sleepily. "That the name of your next book?"

Martin paused. "I'm strongly considering it."

Jon followed Martin's guided commands, climbing the stairs with unsteady legs but confident in his path. When they were curled up in bed together, he let himself be lulled to sleep by the sound of Martin's heartbeat, a steadfast rhythm of love and devotion.

There were no more dreams that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on a recurring stress dream I've had of my nephew since he was around a year old. He was always standing in a field, alone, and crying and I would wake up crying and physically tense and anxious. Kids, man.


End file.
